


Don't Listen When I Scream

by Niko_Niko_Neek



Category: Star Wars: Jedi: Fallen Order (Video Game)
Genre: Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Inquisitor Cal, Seduction to the Dark Side, Sith arc, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-15
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-12 16:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 5,722
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28763661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niko_Niko_Neek/pseuds/Niko_Niko_Neek
Summary: His stare burns into hers. When he speaks, it’s the same intimate whisper one might reserve for a lover.“I’ll kill you for this. All of you.”The thrill of this is nearly palpable. Satisfied, Trilla slips her helmet over her face once again.“Good. You’re almost ready.”An account of Cal's descent to the dark side.
Relationships: Cal Kestis/Trilla Suduri | Second Sister
Comments: 8
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

The sound of screaming is no longer much of a concern to the Second Sister. It’s as much a part of the Fortress as the low hum of machinery or the scarlet glow of electronics, or the ever present heat of the subterranean magma which pervades it. Screams are the first thing to ring out when one entered the interrogation room. At first, it would bother her immensely-the merciless crackling of the electrodes combines with the shrieks of agony still pried visceral memories out of her. Unlike what others might have assumed, feeling nothing was the end result of a long and arduous journey. It took a long time before she was entirely comfortable in that section of the Fortress.

Now, though, it doesn’t bother her. It’s like the murky ocean through the glass panes-a part of the scenery.

Eventually, they all went quiet. It might take some time-Trilla herself lasted a solid three days or so before her voice gave out (though it was difficult to be sure-time didn’t exist when you were under the knife.) The Ninth Sister had lasted the longest-it had taken a visit from the Grand Inquisitor himself in order to finally break her.

Cal, though. Cal Kestis was another case entirely. He was silent from the moment he was brought in.

To Trilla’s unending annoyance, she hadn’t been the one to bring him in. That honor was given to the Ninth Sister, who had yet to shut up about the matter. To his credit, the young Jedi had taken her hand in his struggle to avoid capture, but countless brutal training sessions left the Inquisitors mostly unreactive to pain. A Sith, when pressed, could choose to set pain aside if they were focused enough. It would hurt later, of course, but in the moment it was a setback, one that could eventually be ignored. 

Cal Kestis had never been trained to detach from sensation, from emotion. The Jedi of the past had not been able to sink their claws that deep into him before the Purge.

Even if he doesn’t scream, he still reacts. His teeth have been clenched-in fact, during the first few hours, they had been forced to abandon the tourture chair for a moment when blood seeped from his mouth, fearing the worst. Turns out, he’d nearly bitten through his tongue.

 _Maybe we should have let him,_ Trilla muses in hindsight. _He’d be less trouble that way._

Presently, Cal is very pale, and sweat drips from the tip of his nose and forehead, copper hair darkened with it. Every muscle is drawn tight-mostly involuntarily, Trilla knows. Being electrocuted does that. A red screen obscures her from getting an unfiltered view of the scene, but she doesn’t exactly need one. Standing with her hands clasped neatly behind her back, spine straight in a soldier’s posture, she watched and counts the seconds until he breaks.

Beside her, the Purge trooper seems to take her presence as a signal to impress. He guides the levers higher, increasing the voltage. Cal’s shoulders twitch, and a frown crosses Trilla’s face beneath her sleek helmet.

What is he doing? They need Kestis alive. To her disbelief, the trooper actually nudges the levels higher, higher still, until smoke begins to waft up from Cal’s shirt.

“What are you trying to do? Kill him?” She’s thankful for the filter in her helmet, which takes any edge of what might be perceived as concern away from her voice. “Turn it off.”

The trooper turns towards her, purple visor gazing back stupidly. Her frown turns to a snarl. “ _Now._ ”

Her subservient doesn’t need further prompting. He punches the kill switch. Cal slumps forward-it’s obvious that his restraints are the one thing preventing him from hitting the floor.

But the Second Sister isn’t concerned with him at the moment. Her orders were just questioned.

“I’d like you to remind me,” she begins, her tone returning to mono and authoritative. “Exactly how long we spent tracking this particular Jedi.”

“Nine…” The Troopers voice crackles, but she can still sense the nervousness and fear behind it. “None months, Second Sister.”

“Correct. And, after nine months of concentrated efforts, why exactly did you think I would be happy with finding a corpse in this cell? What use would he be dead?”

Silence.

“None. Correct. Now, why don’t you tell me a single reason why I shouldn’t put you in the chair in the cell beside our guest’s, and demonstrate to you why we should, under no circumstances, exceed maximum voltage? Wouldn’t that help you remember?”

“N-No, Second Sister. I’ll remember. I swear.”

His panic is so thick she can almost small it. “But how can I be sure? Hm?”

She stands there for a few seconds, allowing his terror to build, before speaking again. “Get out of here. And find someone else who can actually follow orders on your way out.”

Procedure drillings are the only thing that prevents the Trooper sprinting away in terror. She watches him go for a moment, her distain obvious despite her concealed face, before turning back to Cal.

“Don’t think this means you’ll be left alone here, Jedi-”

Her taunts hault. Cal’s head is bent forward, but that isn’t what concerns her-a steady drip is coming from his mouth,meaning his jaw is slack. He must have lost consciousness. 

_If that trooper just cost us an Inquisitor-_

Her hand reaches out, the Force commanding the locks that keep the shields up to disengage. The crimson screen winks out of existence, giving Trilla only a few steps forward in order to further asses Cal’s conduction.

Her helmet is marvellous for protection and presence, but it makes hearing and seeing difficult-she removes it in order to check on his breathing.

It’s barely there, faint wheezes. There’s a high-pitched whistle behind it as well.

“Kestis.” she brings one gloved hand up to strike firmly against his cheek, hoping to rouse him. “Playing dead won’t save you.”

He is unresponsive. Jaw set, Trilla reaches out through the Force. Internally, she can sense a mess of fried nerves, bruised ribs-but what concerns her the most is the brain. Parts of it are active-keeping him breathing and keeping his pulse going, however erratic it was. But some of it has gone black and empty.

He’s alive-only passed out. She can’t fully understand the extent of the damage until he’s awake.

Invading the mind is a tactic of the Dark Side. Trilla is by no means a master of it-her talent lies primarily with raw physical powers of the Force. However, inserting oneself into an unconscious, defenseless mind is child’s play.

_Wake up, Kestis._

The command is sent full force and, with a rattled gasp, Cal jerks his head, blinking rapidly. Satisfied, Trilla steps back.

“And here I told the Grand Inquisitor you were made of strong stuff,” she comments snidely with a shake of her head.

It takes a moment for Cal to come back to his bearings, to recall where he was. The realization settles over him like a funeral shroud.

“You should…” Even though he hasn’t screamed, Cal’s voice is shot to hell, scraping and exhausted. “You should just kill me.”

A knowing smirk grows across her face. “Don’t think you won’t. Believe me, Cal Kestis will die.” Trilla turns her back in him, making a slow walk back to the control panels. “The person named Cal Kestis will never leave that chamber there. If you’re truly gifted, you might be able to feel him breathe his last. If you’re as gifted as _I_ believe you are, you’ll feel your hands grow wet with his blood when you strike him down.”

His ragged breaths are, at the very least, steady. Inwardly, Cal feels himself search for any tether to ground himself with-what returns are the same words he can recall speaking to the Nighsister, Merrin.

“We are Peacekeepers.”

She almost laughs. “Is that what they told you?” Helmet now retrieved and held in one hand, Trilla turns back to face him. “Your precious Jedi ruined more lives than I can count on both hands. Always so deluded, so convinced of their own self-righteous way of life. Eradicating any life-form which doesn’t agree.”

“That’s not true.” She almost can’t believe it-here Cal is, barely conscious, and the brainwashing of the Jedi still parrots out of his bleeding mouth. “The Jedi protect. They protect justice.”

Trilla raises one eyebrow. “Then where are they? More to the point, where is Cere?”

There it is-the tiny sliver of doubt, perhaps even smaller than a needlepoint, but ever present. For a moment, she feels something akin to sympathy.

“....Cal. Let’s not lie to one another. I believe we understand each other well enough to avoid that.” Her gloved hand settles on the hilt of her saber, the same Cal could barely hold. “How long has it been? Four full days? Five?”

He doesn’t know-it’s obvious from his unfocused stare.

“If she really wanted to save you, wouldn’t she have attempted it by now?”

“They’re coming. She’s coming.”

He’s repeating it to himself like a small child, and unexpectedly, Trilla feels an ache of sympathy. It had been her in that chair, before, repeating the same mantra to herself over and over and over.

“I want to save you from a lot of unneeded pain, Cal Kestis, pain that I had to experience myself. No one is coming to save you. If they had, they would have done it by now.”

“You’re lying.” It’s sharp, a caged animal biting in defense.

“I just said I wouldn’t lie to you.”

“The Sith only ever lie.”

The sigh that leaves her is akin to a patience teacher explaining to a small child that two and two were four. “No, Cal. We only ever deal in truth. What’s the use of following what the Jedi do, and pretending otherwise? You are afraid, Cal. I can sense the fear as easily as the temperature. And you are correct to be afraid.”

The sound of her boots on the metal deck are audible as she approaches him once again.

“You are angry, angry in a way that meditation cannot conceal. You are angry at the people here who caused you pain. You are angry at me, perhaps understandably.” Cal lifts his head so their eyes meet, and she is taken aback by the subtle rage reflected in his expression.

“Ah.” A satisfied smirk alights on her lips. “There it is.”

“You’re just describing yourself, Trilla.” Cal all but spits.

“Am I? I have understood the flaws of my former Master. You’re still waiting for yours to come in and rescue you…..Tell me, Kestis. Was he really so much like a father?”

“Stop it.”

“What would Tapal say, could he see you now? Some cryptic riddle? Do you really think he would provide you with any actual advice, or would he simply instruct you to let go-as the Jedi always do? Never mind that you dwell within an inch of life. Never mind that every part of your body screams in pain.”

“He’d-”

“Critique you. As my master did. As all of them do. The path to Sithood is to understand that you are _alone_ , Cal Kestis. That no one is going to help you. Once you understand that, the real work can begin.”

His stare burns into hers. When he speaks, it’s the same intimate whisper one might reserve for a lover.

“I’ll kill you for this. All of you.”

The thrill of this is nearly palpable. Satisfied, Trilla slips her helmet over her face once again.

“Good. You’re almost ready.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Her brow furrows in concentration. The Force gatherers around Cal is weak and burdened, but still strong-intoxicatingly so. In it, she senses his exhaustion, his deep sorrow at being left behind, and beneath that, the river connecting it all._
> 
> _Loneliness. The unique brand of isolation that comes only from a fallen Jedi. Cal Kestis is alone, has been for seven years, and he is alone now. In that respect, at the core of everything. Cal Kestis is still a weeping Padawan, clutching the shattered remnants of his master’s lightsaber as if somewhere among the wreckage and the twisted metal, he can find the answer._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of a shorter chapter today, but its important to me that the pacing is very gradual. Turning to the Dark Side takes a long time, after all.

He takes a very long time to break entirely.

Day continue on, turning into weeks, and the weeks continuing their merciless advance into months. Trilla hardly minds the wait, however-with each moment that passes, Cal is closer to the realization of the truth, the same truth that Trilla had hissed into his ear at their first encounter after his capture.

No one was coming for him.

And, to her surprise, it was true. She knew Cere well enough to understand that the woman’s pride was nearly as strong as her stubbornness. She would have been hard pressed to lose yet another padawan, and Cal was meant to be her final effort at redemption in the eyes of her pathetic and hollow code. But there had been no intrusion, no blip on the extensive security system surrounding Nurr that would reveal the Mantis, sailing onward in some sad rescue attempt. Not even the Nightsister, who’s first name Cal so often shrieked in his nightmares, seemed to have been able to talk Cere into coming.

Emptiness and silence prevailed. And Cal, eventually, went silent too.

Trilla still intended on being the one to turn him, but accepted that it would be counterproductive if he got too accustomed to her presence. He needed to be on edge, constantly-no semblance of security or routine could be permitted.

The first step to the dark side is anger. And oh, does Cal have so very much of it.

At first it was difficult to sense, masked by the reaction to physical pain. But now, it is palpable each time Trilla happens to walk past his cell-even just near the block where his cell is located. The Jedi is seething. Rage keeps him on his feet-rage at Trilla herself, at the Ninth Sister who now oversees his torment, rage at Vader-but more than that, rage at Cere. At his former companions. Fury that they had proved Trilla right.

When she finally does get the notice, that Cal is being removed from his cell, she is frankly stunned. She’d been in the process of meditating when the Grand Inquisitor himself interrupted, his stature tall and looming compared to her slight height. The visor of his helmet-which, to Trilla’s knowledge, he has never removed-glows scarlet.

“He’s ready,” The Sith informs her in a clipped, metallic voice.

Helmetless, Trilla raises an eyebrow. “Already?”

“He has agreed not to fight. He has surrendered. But he will not walk our path-not on his own.”

Trilla understands this. Some Jedi, even after a veritable eternity of torture, still remained too proud to relinquish their former ways and embrace the new one. Cal would need encouragement-someone to demand nothing less than his total transformation.

“And you believe I can encourage him?”

Even through his helmet, she can feel the Grand Inquisitor level her with a steady stare. “He trusts you, in his way. He is the closest to you out of all of us. Vader believes that this is your responsibility.”

Her lungs freeze to ice. Vader. The single Dark Lord of the Sith who terrifies Trilla with his mere presence- _Vader_ has chosen her to turn Cal. Before, she had wanted to be the one only out of a sense of personal challenge, out of a fascination with the former Padawan, but now-

Now there was no choice. Failure is not permitted by the Sith. There are only setbacks.

Slowly, she nods. “Then it will be done.”

Cal’s barracks are nowhere near the Inquisitor’s quarters-he would be kept in a secure section, near where the troopers were housed. The common area. In the old and glorious days of the Sith, this would have been where those in servitude were kept, a place to sleep in between summons. For Cal, though, in comparison to his former dwellings, they would seem like a luxury.

He is asleep when she comes, spent and exhausted. Though she has no doubt he would be able to sense her had he been awake, he currently more resembles a corpse than a living man. The scars on his face exist in addition to an array of cuts, both old and fresh. One or two have re-opened, smearing rust streaks of blood across his pillow, but even this hasn’t roused him. He shakes, even in his sleep.

For a moment, Trilla feels a pang of sympathy. She isn’t kind, herself, but the Ninth sister always took to these assignments with a relish she finds brutish and primitive. After all, if he is on the brink of death, it will only postpone the point where his real training can begin.

Trilla came prepared with salve and, after a moments deliberation, takes a seat at the edge of Cal’s bed. He remind asleep, eyelids flickering. He is dreaming-and Trilla is very familiar with the kinds of nightmares he must be having in this place.

Removing her glove, she unscrews the lid to the salve. If Cal trusts her, as the Grand Inquisitor surmised, she will use it. Cautiously, she begins to apply the paste to one of the opened cuts.

In an instant, Cal spasms, bolting awake. His eyes, green and wild, dart around the room. Once they focus on Trilla, he shrinks away like a wounded beast, pressing himself back against the wall.

Pathetic, she muses. At one time, he’d challenged her to battle with a tiring arrogance. Now, he flinched at any sudden movements. The weakness, the vulnerability, makes her sick.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Trilla says coldly, fingertips still glistening with the medicine. “Do you want them to stop hurting or not?”

Cal eyes her, cautiously. “What is that?”

“A balm, among other things. It will hurt to apply, but the stinging will stop soon after. And you’ll feel a hell of a lot better than you do now, that I can promise.”

He’s still hesitant, but peels himself away from the wall. Trilla still frowns at how meek and afraid his movements are, but begins to apply the salve nonetheless. To her surprise, Cal doesn’t comment on the stinging. He must be accustomed to worse pain by now.

“You won’t be going back on the rack,” Trilla tells him, continuing to dab the salve onto the cuts on his face. “Not if you’re smart.”

“I won’t turn.”

Straight to the point, then. Trilla pauses mid-dab, so that her fingers hover above his cheek. Her eyes narrow.

“Eventually, Kestis, you’ll have no choice.”

“So you’ll take that away from me, too.”

She huffs, and applies the rest of the medicine a tad more brashly. “When one finds themselves in a grave, Cal, eventually the only way out is up. And once you get there…” She closes the lid back into the medicine and looks up once again, the diseased yellow eyes of the Sith meeting the dull and clouded eyes of the broken. “Once you get there, you won’t believe the things we’ll be able to show you.”

He still musters up the energy to give her a piercing glare. “You don’t have anything I want.”

“Freedom?”

No reaction. This is a test, Trilla decides.

“Power.”

Nothing-Cal even attempts a soft scoff.

Her brow furrows in concentration. The Force gatherers around Cal is weak and burdened, but still strong-intoxicatingly so. In it, she senses his exhaustion, his deep sorrow at being left behind, and beneath that, the river connecting it all.

Loneliness. The unique brand of isolation that comes only from a fallen Jedi. Cal Kestis is alone, has been for seven years, and he is alone now. In that respect, at the core of everything. Cal Kestis is still a weeping Padawan, clutching the shattered remnants of his master’s lightsaber as if somewhere among the wreckage and the twisted metal, he can find the answer.

“Family.”

His gaze snaps up to meet hers. A smile alights on Trilla’s face-she’s found an angle.

“The Sith protect their own, Cal. We aren’t like the Jedi, treating each member like a pawn to be sacrificed all in the name of some greater good. When one of us falls, we all fall. When you prove your strength, your commitment-you will find a family here. I swear that to you.”

“You’re lying,” Cal replies, but his voice sounds weak and heavy with some desperate emotion.

“I am not.” Reaching out, Trilla covers his flesh hand with her own. “You will never be left behind, Cal, not as long as you are one of us. In time, you’ll gain the power to keep yourself safe-not only yourself, but others who are important to you. Attachment is not a dirty word, you know. Here, those bonds are honored and cherished. Strength is derived from passion, Kestis. Not peace.”

She squeezes his hand once and gets to her feet.

“That is your first lesson. One of many to come.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The path to the Dark Side, some might say, is an easy one.
> 
> Trilla’s gold-tinges eyes widen in shock. Cal’s fingers and thumb curl inward, and every relentless electric shock that had wracked his body is deflected outward, seizing Trilla’s throat, cutting off her airflow.
> 
> He is flying. He is falling.  
> He is crazed with elation. He is dying of grief.

Cal Kestis is alone in the dark.

It’s an expression that can be taken both literally and figuratively. The lights in his cell always shut off by themselves at a certain time with no means to turn them back on again, and that time has passed-so literally, he is alone in the dark. But darkness of vision is only a temporary setback-the fluorescents will turn on again, in time, and he will be able to see. The real darkness, the one that never leaves him, the one that he drowns in, is something far more permanent.

It’s the shadow of the dark side that surrounds him, tht gnaws at his heart and whispers promises into his ear. It was the dark side that sat next to him mere hours ago-or was it days?-cna applied soothing balm to his cuts.

No, not the dark-Trilla.

Trilla Sunduri is not some living entity of the dark side, the way Vader is. She is a person who has made choices, the same as Cal has. Only his choices were not to hurt, to maim and torture. His choices were true to himself, loyal unfailingly to the peacekeeping traditions of the extinct Jedi.

But just because he is loyal to the Force does not mean that it is loyal to him.

With his dying breath, Jaro Tapal had informed his frightened Padawan to trust exclusively in the Force and its’ grand design. And he had-and it had lead him here. Here, where every breath was more painful than the last. Here, where the dark side consumed and dominated everything. Here, where he is alone and in pain, forgotten. 

The dark cell block swims around him-even the slightest movement of his head sends a nauseating wave of dizziness down his spine. He feels sick. The constant flow of the Force, which gave him his bearings so many countless times before is gone now. Severed from him. He’s too weak to reach out, but even if he wasn’t, he has a horrible feeling that it would no longer be there. It is as if the Force itself has rejected him, decided he was not a servant worth defending.

It’s another variation on the running theme of his life. As a child, he had been secure. As a Padawan, he’d had purpose. But all roads had lead him here-to the Empire. To the Sith.

To the Second Sister.

\------------

And, perhaps fittingly, the Second Sister is his most frequent visitor.

Assuming her visits were to gloat, Cal takes a majority of them the same way-kneeling with his back to the door, refusing to respond to any of her probing questions or even acknowledge her presence. He can tell that his refusal to engage frustrates her, which gives him a grim sense of satisfaction. When everything else was stripped away, tiny victories meant everything. 

She is nothing, though, if not persistent. Eventually, she stops trying to talk to him and just brings him meals. Monitors his physical health. His mental health needs no explanation, really.

Cal heals, but it is slow and gradual, and some of the wounds inflicted turn into more scarring. Eventually, though, it’s the isolation that wears on him. The loneliness.

So, he begins to speak to Trilla.

Their conversations are not long. At first, they are limited to an exchange of biting insults, each more cutting than the last. Her self-satisfied smirking and the way she struts around like an overgrown peacock provokes a fury in Cal that he never thought possible. Again, sometimes, in the dead of night, he thinks back to his oath on the first week of capture, the first time seeing Trilla within the confines of his interrogation chair.

_I’ll kill all of you for this._

Did he mean it? Cal decides that he did.

Revenge is the first doorway to the Sith. But with no kind, false-promising mentor to chide him, Cal Kestis seethes. He seethes and prepares for the time when he will slaughter all of them, as easily as he had countless stormtroopers on his brief travels through the galaxy.

One day, when Trilla arrives in her usual fashion to goad him, asking in mocking tones if he is still waiting for Merrin to come back for him, something happens.

He becomes so angry that he is calm.

When he reaches out through the Force, the searing pain of blaster-fire from clones he had once called friends is the catalyst which throws Trilla back against the cell wall. It is instinctive, deeply primal, the way he reaches out. Unlike the countless times he had sought refuge in the restful meditation of the living Force, this energy comes both quickly and easily. It is all around him, in the confines of his cell, in the smouldering furnace of his broken heart.

The path to the Dark Side, some might say, is an easy one.

Trilla’s gold-tinges eyes widen in shock. Cal’s fingers and thumb curl inward, and every relentless electric shock that had wracked his body is deflected outward, seizing Trilla’s throat, cutting off her airflow.

He is flying. He is falling.  
He is crazed with elation. He is dying of grief.

It’s with a dumb kind of surprise that Cal realizes how easy it would be to kill Trilla-to continue squeezing until nothing was left, to eradicate her existence.

But her expression leaps out at him. She is afraid. 

_We were Peacekeepers._

He stumbles backward and collapses to the ground at the same time Trilla does. His hand has become other, some alien and foreign instrument.

“.....Yes.” Trilla manages, her voice raspy and weakened. “Yes.”

Mute, he shakes his head. His vision blurs with tears.

I didn’t mean to. Please. I didn’t mean to.

“That is it. That is the power of the Dark Side. Cal, can’t you see?”

With his anger evaporated, Cal is little more than a feeble child. Tears stream down his face and he is sobbing, his face pressed into his arms. He doesn’t know that Trilla has approached him until he feels her hands on his shoulders.

“Cal,” she breathes. “You’re _free_ now.”

Helpless, changed, with the impossible weight of knowing he never can go back to where he was, Cal sinks forward. The Second Sister embraces him, almost gingerly, an action she must surely be unused to. He feels fingers comb back through his hair.

Sithood embraces him.

He allows it.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Though a thick helmet obscured the trooper’s face, Cal can visualize the sneer very easily. The same strange anger, half fury and half awful sadness, strikes through his heart. It’s dulled a little over the years, but it’s always present whenever he hears a trooper’s voice._
> 
> _It’s the voice of so many people who used to be his friends._
> 
> _The people who murdered Jaro Tapal, who carved a slash in his cheek and neck, who dogged his every steps like a persistent shadow or permanent illness._
> 
> _The people who murdered his droid. Who jolted his body with merciless lightning._
> 
> _Lightsaber or not, Cal decides he will not give them the satisfaction of going quietly._

To say he is beaten into submission would not be entirely accurate.

He isn’t forced at blaster or saberpoint to use the dark side of the force. No one had demanded he do so. When he closed an invisible fist around Trilla’s throat, he had done it because he’d wanted to-because he knew he could. Just as he had lashed out in untrained fury as a last attempt to save his dying mentor, Cal had lashed out again.

But it is different this time. He’s not a child anymore. And even he knows there is no going back.

He has failed. Fallen. There is nothing he will be able to do to make it right. And even if he could, somehow, what good would it do? With the holocron lost forever, he has no purpose. With the crew of the Mantis gone, he has no friends. As much as his loneliness would lead him to believe otherwise, Cal knows he cannot trust Trilla. 

He is all he has left.

This is the way of the Sith. Turning inwards.

He’s fetched from his cell block a few days after his encounter with the Second Sister. It isn’t her that arrive, but another inquisitor, clothed entirely in uniform. Cal only knows it’s a man by the voice and build-his helmet conceals all of his face. When he is told to follow, Cal does with no questions. He knows by now that none of them will be answered.

The walk is a bit of a long one. They pass several troopers who regard him either with vague interest or annoyance. He doesn’t recognize the path, but understands the room he is taken to once they arrive.

The Jedi Dojo in the Temple had been a grounding place with no ceiling, roof opened up to the sky. Though of course it was a place to train and had lots of programmed droids and training holograms, it was a clean place. Safe. Somewhere to focus, to give yourself to the Force and harness the best of your skills.

This room is nothing like that.

Searing heat greets them as they enter, making Cal grateful for his threadbare prison clothes for the first time. Scarlet banners bearing the emblem of the Empire hang overhead. The floor and walls are metal grates, and shift as they enter, revealing the magma just beneath.

The Inquisitor beside him speaks one word.

“Survive.”

Then, the door shuts, and Cal is alone.

Well, not completely alone. The pair of purge troopers on the other side of the room are pretty hard to miss.

He’s been given no weapon, and still feels nowhere near strong. Ahead, both ends of an electro staff as well as two handheld weapons glow with purple lightning. 

A sense of defeated weariness spreads through his veins. This would be a good opportunity to give up. Surely they would just kill him if he refused to fight.

“What’s wrong, Jedi? Lost your toy?”

Though a thick helmet obscured the trooper’s face, Cal can visualize the sneer very easily. The same strange anger, half fury and half awful sadness, strikes through his heart. It’s dulled a little over the years, but it’s always present whenever he hears a trooper’s voice.

It’s the voice of so many people who used to be his friends.

The people who murdered Jaro Tapal, who carved a slash in his cheek and neck, who dogged his every steps like a persistent shadow or permanent illness.

The people who murdered his droid. Who jolted his body with merciless lightning.

Lightsaber or not, Cal decides he will not give them the satisfaction of going quietly.

Recalling his basic training, Cal leaps upward and begins a sidelong dash along the grated wall. The ridges of metal dig painfully into his bare feet, but he’s accustomed to pain now, and it’s easy enough to ignore. He knows it looks like he’s running, but he needs to buy time-they have the weapons.

But he...He has his anger. 

He lands back onto the metal floor with a roll that makes his shoulder twinge. When Cal had used the Force before, there was more of a sense of asking for permission. Now, though, he commands it. He demands that the electrostaff come to his hand.

The metal tube smacks the palm of his hand and his fingers are closed around it in what feels like seconds.

His teeth grit. These troopers, these stupid troopers with their uniforms which somehow set them apart, when truly they are no different than the cannon-fodder in white. These pathetic-

A sudden rush of numbness between his shoulder blades causes him to double over. The second trooper has struck him from behind.

“Do not get lost in your rage, Kestis.”

It’s difficult to focus on whoever the commanding voice on the intercom is now that Cal is curled on his side being pummeled by two troopers. A boot collides with his ribs, rewawkening the damage which he’d already sustained from the torture chair.

“Get up.”

The voice sounds robotic, but Cal chalks that up to the intercom system. He’d kept a death grip on the electrostaff and swipes outward in a sweep, catching the ankle of one of the troopers. It’s not much, but it grants him enough room to get back on his feet. He can taste blood-he must have bit his tongue. He can feel the sting of fresh cuts on his arms and face.

Humiliated, beaten, and furious, Cal decides to win.

A strange, guttural growl leaves his throat as he reaches up and takes the bodies of one of the Troopers with him. Another heave forward sends him screaming into the magma.

The other one looks shaken and, savagely, Cal thinks, _good._

The staff is just an instrument-Cal is the force. He drives one end into the glass visor, shattering the glass and revealing a set of terrified eyes. Cal delivers a strong kick to the troopers sternum, sending him flat on his back. A bare, bleeding foot centers on the trooper’s chest, and he brings the staff upward with both hands and stabs downward into the trooper’s shattered helmet.

The trooper lights up. Cal watches as parts of his skull flash, the stench of smoke filtering upward. Cal knows the smell. After months in the chair, he knows it very well.

The trooper doesn’t stop moving, limbs still jerking in an awkward and sporatic dance, but Cal knows he is dead. He can feel it happen. The staff in his hand tells a story-a story of a trooper whos name Cal still does not know. Though his unique ability, Cal senses the man’s life-how he liked coffee before going on shift, how the trooper Cal just threw into the magma was much like his brother.

And then emptiness. Silence.

Cal’s breath comes in heaves. Now that the adrenaline is gone, he can feel the sharp pains in his body. He has left a trail of bloody footprints to mark his advancement. Nausea rises in him and the electrostaff clatters to the floor.

The door to the dojo slides open, and though he cannot see her face through the helmet, he knows it’s Trilla. The floor rejoins itself as she walks, granting her a clear path towards him. A gloved hand is outstretched.

“Well done, Cal. The last two before you just threw themselves in the lava.”

He doesn’t take her hand-instead, he throws up.


End file.
